Love Thy Neighbor
by Ahmerst
Summary: School/Gakuen AU in which Alfred takes a liking to that Russian hunk next door. Which is all kinds of confusing, because he's pretty sure he likes chicks.
1. Chapter 1

Alfred liked to compartmentalize his life, break it down into digestible chunks with clearly marked sections on a time line. There was life, in the beginning. It was the fuzzy period with half-memories and strong emotions. Then there were the years when he was older, but still so small, where days had stretched forever and the sun never seemed to wane.

Middle school bumbled along after that, sitting all day at a desk while learning about Missions and the gold rush and singing 'My Darling Clementine' on a warm Friday night to an auditorium full of parents. He tried to blot out the chunk where they'd all been forced to learn the recorder, and he'd gotten a red check-mark next to his name for writing down letters next to the notes. Cheating, they called it.

He was supposed to understand those fat, oval dots, but their language escaped him. It was the first problem he'd ever encountered he could not sway with his big blue eyes and blond, batting lashes. It was unswayed by crocodile tears and whining and compromising. And it was the first of many.

Parents, he soon found out, eventually became immune as well. Especially dads. Moms knew it too, that was why they always said to ask dad. Dad was the last stop, ruler of the realm, King of Suburbia and its children inhabitants. And then one day your mom could leave and dads went from ruler to flat out tyrant.

Alfred was still experiencing the tyrannical era with his old man. It was an era where nothing was ever good enough. The bed was never made right, the floor still needed vacuuming, and having your friends over was as welcome as harboring enemy spies.

That was why the new guy was so nice. The guy that moved next door into the Mason's old house, with its blue trim and dark roof and half-yellowed lawn. Alfred had watched from his window, peeked between venetian blinds to watch the show. The new guy was tall, broad, built thick and strong and made Alfred think of the term 'good stock.'

His hair was white in the sun, matching nearly perfectly with his skin. Maybe he had a condition that made him look like that. Maybe he had a cool, interesting condition like that kid in Alfred's Spanish class who had eyes that were two different colors.

And the neighbor kid only had a dad too. A scary one, sure. Probably a tyrant like Alfred's. He was bulky and hairy and wore too much clothing for the beating heat of early spring. He made the new guy carry everything inside while he stood around and looked imposing.

Alfred didn't introduce himself. That wasn't what you did nowadays. You nodded, or waved if your gazes met, but the whole ringing of the doorbell and gifting of apple pie was something in the past. And maybe it would have been better if Alfred and the new guy stayed that way, familiar strangers that lived next to one another. But they didn't, and it was what started what Alfred liked to call his Is-This-For-Real? phase where everything was so wrong and right all at once.


	2. Chapter 2

Ivan was his name. He was from Russia and he had pretty purple eyes and he didn't know his way around the school campus. Alfred had taken the initiative, promised to escort him to each of his classes, meeting Ivan at the door of his last class each time, doing his best to hide his gulping, heavy breaths.

Ivan was nice. Nice and interesting and had a quiet gentility about him. He was not loud, nor did he seem to ever hurry. Long legs meant long steps, steady even strides that Alfred tried to match. Ivan's face was─ was sculpted, somehow. It made Alfred think of passages from dusty old books, tales of Greek gods and high cheekbones coupled with smooth white skin.

And his nose. Ivan didn't have a movie star nose, something that could be classified as traditionally beautiful. It kind of made Alfred think of a shark fin, and he liked sharks a lot. It was a weird nose, but it was good-weird. Ivan would make a good model, Alfred decided. Models were always beautiful and off at the same time. Ethereal, almost. Like aliens.

Aliens were Alfred's favorite things after junk food and video games (and before sharks).

His voice only made his mystique better. It was rolled and flat and made all sorts of noises Alfred couldn't even begin to pin down. It was different, exotic, like a sweet song against Alfred's ears. Alfred wished Ivan would talk more, show off his pipes, but he did nothing that first day beyond ask the most basic of questions, or warmly thank Alfred after finding his next room.

Ivan disappeared at lunch, and Alfred looked everywhere for him, only to finally find Ivan mere seconds before the bell rang.

Ivan ended up being in Alfred's English class, which occupied the last period of the day. He took his seat at the back, a single desk separating him from Alfred. Alfred had switched seats with Romano, who didn't like sitting behind Francis anyway. When the teacher took attendance she noticed though, and soon Alfred was back to sitting almost-close to Ivan.

After school let out, Ivan admitted he might need Alfred to guide him around for a few more days, and asked if he could repay Alfred by walking him to and from school in exchange for Alfred's Sherpa services. Out of gratitude, of course.

Alfred said yes, and his heart felt like it'd had the wind knocked out of it when Ivan smiled at him.

On the third day of walking Alfred home, Ivan's hands had brushed against Alfred's. It was an accident, Alfred was sure of that, but it sent a shuddering jolt of all sorts of feelings through him. It reached the top of his head, the very bottoms of his toes, and everywhere in between.

It was an exhilarating experience, yet strangely calming. It made Alfred think of the girls he'd been with, hugged and kissed but nothing more, never more. It was the opposite of the feeling that gave him, that insecurity and sharp dread of what they were expecting.

Ivan's touch was comfortable, and that of those girls was not.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: I should have mentioned this before! While the chapters start out smaller, they do begin to grow. Like this one. While not huge, it's still 300 words more than the last. And since the last was roughly 500, it is a jump still. If I recall correctly, the chapters nearing the end grow to 2,000 or so words. Anyway, thank you very much for reading, I sincerely appreciate all of the reviews and comments I've gotten.

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><p>Ivan went and ruined it all four weeks into their friendship. It was stupid of him, really. He and Alfred had become awesome buddies, would meet to talk in between classes, would walk side by side to and from school. Ivan stayed away from Alfred during lunch, though. He said he made people uncomfortable and he didn't want to scare them away from Alfred.<p>

Alfred could kind of see it. Ivan did have a certain air about him, almost an aura, which was so cheesy and new-agey**,** Alfred's face screwed up at the thought of it. There was something more to Ivan than other people, not that Alfred could pinpoint it. Ivan was a lot of person for one body was the best way he could put it.

Things in general were funny around Ivan, too. Cats ran across the street, dogs barked from behind their fences, and lamps flickered at night when they walked under them. Alfred had snuck glances when that happened. Always Ivan's face would change, a fleeting but clear hurt in his eyes.

It wasn't fair, Alfred decided. Ivan probably just had a funny energy field or something. He'd seen cameras that could photograph them, so he knew they were real. It made him think of snakes and their heat vision. Maybe the cats and dogs could see that sort of thing too, and it scared them.

But Alfred wasn't scared. Ivan was sweet and thoughtful and definitely a super romantic guy. He read anthologies of poetry, recited them to Alfred when they walked, and told Alfred about the symbolism behind certain colors and flowers.

That was what did him in, that romantic streak.

He thought it was a good idea─ a romantic idea─ to ask Alfred out one day. He'd come up to Alfred's table in the cafeteria with a bouquet of flowers so full he had to hold it in both hands.

There was delphinium for July, when Alfred had been born. Then yellow chrysanthemum, the sign of a secret admirer. Geranium for comfort, gardenia for joy. And of course there were sunflowers, Ivan's personal favorite. They were adoration, sweet and warm. It was topped off with a smattering of Star of Bethlehem flowers in the middle.

They were hope. Hope that Alfred crushed through a very public reaction. He hadn't meant to raise his voice, to be so loud. And he wasn't loud, he didn't think. It was that suddenly everyone else had become very quiet. There was supposed to be a constant noise in the cafeteria, laughing voices and clanking silverware, too-loud chewing and slurping and the scrape of chairs.

But those sounds had somehow stopped and there was nothing but a deadly calm so everyone heard Alfred. They heard him say "No, no I'm not like that," and "Seriously I'm not into dudes, you're just my buddy."

And maybe they even heard that noise, that quiet little catch in Ivan's throat as his eyes clouded over and there was no hope left in him. He'd dutifully handed over the flowers, placed them oh so carefully in Alfred's arms, and walked out. A few shouts were made, a cat call and a couple of one-liners, but Ivan ignored them all.

He wasn't in English that day. He stopped showing up altogether, hadn't come back even by the end of the week. Alfred's guilt was endless, his heart a pulsing, sorry lump that sat cold and weak in his chest. He'd hidden the flowers Ivan had given him, after his friends had laughed and joked and told him to throw them away. He said he'd do that, do it right away.

He stuck them behind the old dodgeball wall no one used anymore and retrieved them after school. He'd run home all the way from school, his backpack pounding into him with each step, thudding like a heartbeat against his skin. He found a vase in the attic, gave it a quick rinse and then it was good to go.

He put the vase and all of its flowers on the desk at his window, the window that faced Ivan's room. Because it wasn't like he meant to say those things, to have that curt, sudden tone in his voice. It was simply that Alfred knew he didn't like boys.

And sure, Ivan made him feel good, good and comfortable and certainly safe with his broad chest and well-muscled arms. And yes he smelled good, a slight musk, a mix of sweat and spice. But that didn't change anything. Alfred's heart might hiccup around Ivan, skitter and squirm and shiver against his chest, and it was better than anything but─ but he wasn't like that.

Ivan was the scent inside a just-purchased car, a gift half-unwrapped. He was new, that was it. He had all the good feelings around him that came with discovery and infatuation. It would fade, of course. And sure it was taking longer, kind of too long in fact, but it was bound to wear off eventually.

It had to, right?


	4. Chapter 4

Alfred broke into Ivan's house one night. Well, not really broke into it, not with lock picks or a skeleton key or even with an intent to steal anything. It was more like he noticed there wasn't a car in the driveway for the fourth night in a row, and that Ivan's light was still on but he still wasn't heading to school so maybe he was sick. Maybe his dad had gone off on a business trip and Ivan was lying in bed, addled with a fever and unable to care for himself.

Alfred knocked first, of course. He even tried the doorbell, holding his ear to the door to see if he could hear anyone moving about inside. But there was nothing, and it only added to his worries. He found that the door was unlocked when he tried it, and the hinges gave a haunting groan as he let himself in. He halfway thought it would slam behind him the second he was inside.

Alfred crept carefully through the house, trying hard not to disturb anything. The entire interior gave off an air of old money. There were busts on desks, oil paintings that held people with noble faces and fine clothes, military memorabilia within glass cases. Everything had its own place, and it made Alfred think of the houses he and his old man had visited when their old pad got too expensive.

He thought of the burning wax candles and the throw rugs on couches no one would ever use. The plush pillows on beds that were for decorative purposes only, the shiny tafetta sheets no one would sleep on. All of those houses had been staged, made to look like a home, like a place you would want to live.

But no amount of smoke and mirrors could hide their lonely halls. They were houses, not homes. They didn't have memories in their rooms, there were no scuffs or chips in the paint, no stains in the carpet. It was just walls and furniture and decoration with no warmth.

Alfred tiptoed up the stairs silently, fingers gripping the banister, pulling him along one step at a time. He envisioned the floor plan in his head, mapped out where Ivan's room would be. He walked the hallways with careful steps, ignored closed doors and opened ones alike until he reached what he thought could be Ivan's.

He looked out the window from the hallway and saw his own room, that vase with its wilted, dying flowers. He'd been keeping watch, a vigil, eyes always open, waiting to catch a glimpse of Ivan. But the blinds remained shut, the curtains drawn.

Alfred rapped his knuckles lightly against what he thought was Ivan's door. If Ivan was in there, he wasn't answering. With a quiet click and a simple twist he had the door easing open, his body through the crack, shutting it softly behind him.

Ivan's room was neither clean nor messy. His things seemed organized, for the most part, but there were some clothes on the ground. All his books were nice and neat in the bookcase though, arranged seemingly from tallest to shortest in descending rows. His desk was neat, the pens lined up carefully, papers stacked with purpose.

His bed was messy, sure, but then again he was sleeping in it, so that made sense. Ivan looked like he was having a good dream, too. His expression was calm, the hint of a smile on his lips. His blankets were twisted around him like snakes, limbs sprawled out.

Alfred moved closer, his shadow casting over Ivan. He must have been tired to fall asleep with the light on, or, in his sickness, it was possible he couldn't reach it, didn't have the energy to move. He could be starving for all Alfred knew, dehydrated and trapped in fevered dreams. The thought of it made Alfred's heart turn inside out.

He rested his hand against Ivan's forehead, feeling for the tell-tale heat. Yet there was nothing, not even the stirrings of warmth. Ivan's skin was smooth and cool, pleasant, even. Ivan stirred under his touch, eyelids fluttering open as Alfred pulled his hand away.

There was a tense moment as Ivan seemed to wake, stretching, struggling groggily with his sheets. He rubbed at his eyes, a bright, alert look slowly ebbing into them. Alfred instinctively took a step back when Ivan rose, all slow movements and sleepy grace. It reminded him of Frankenstein's monster, freshly brought to life.

"Get out," Ivan said, and his voice was husky, deeper than Alfred remembered it. It made his pulse quicken and his breath shiver.

"C'mon , man, hear me out for a sec─"

"I said get out."

Alfred planted his feet, balled up his hands into fists, and screwed up the courage to stay. "I'm not going anywhere in a rush, so hold your horses."

Ivan stood, and it took everything in Alfred not to edge away. Alfred was a tall kid, strong and confident looking, but Ivan was taller. Where Alfred's muscles were boyish and rounded, Ivan was nothing but cut. His shoulders were broad, his collarbone well-defined. He could certainly be intimidating if we wanted to, and the fact that he was only in a loose-fitting tank top and his boxers didn't subtract from that fact.

"Why are you in my house?" Ivan asked, his tone guttural, too-rough.

"Look, I've been worried as all get out about you. You've been missing loads of school and it's like you're always home alone. I thought you got sick or something."

Ivan smiled, but the expression was all wrong. His lips curled at the edges, more a sneer than anything, a glimpse of white teeth behind taut lips. He took a step forward, and Alfred could feel his body trying to shy away. But he held fast and leveled his most serious, super-adult face at Ivan.

"You could say I have been sick," Ivan started. "But not in the way you think."

Alfred's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "I didn't─ I didn't mean to say all that stuff so loud. I still wanna be your buddy and all, it's not like things have to change."

Ivan looked away, and Alfred could see his pulse jumping in his neck.

"That is how you show me you want things to stay the same? By sneaking into my room at night like this?"

Alfred groaned. "Why're you being so difficult? Look, let's make a deal. Come back to school and you won't even have to talk to me. I'll be like a ghost or something."

Ivan's expression grew pensive, his eyes darkening. Alfred fidgeted, toes curling within his shoes. He tried not to think of what had caused all this, that pretty bouquet and Ivan's invitation for a date. It made Alfred's blood run hot to think that Ivan of all people could like him that way.

Ivan, who was more handsome than anything (and Alfred could say that, because handsome was what you called good-looking guys no matter your orientation). He was smart and well-read, able to answer any question Alfred posed to him. And he was so careful, so precise with his hands when he was brushing back an errant lock of Alfred's hair, or when the pads of his fingers glanced Alfred's skin as they walked.

"Fine," Ivan eventually said, snapping Alfred back from his thoughts.

And if anyone had a fever then, it was Alfred. With his cheeks still hot, the redness seeping down into his neck and up to the tip of his ears. It made it hard for him to speak, his throat too tight and dry. All he could do was nod in response and open his arms.

But Ivan didn't return the gesture, didn't lean in for a hug. Instead he got back into bed, hiking the covers up to his chin this time. Alfred's arms dropped back to his sides, useless and floppy. He finally let himself back away, a hand reaching out to flick off the light switch.

"So, uh, guess I'll see you tomorrow then?" Alfred said quietly.

"Mmhmm," Ivan mumbled. "But do not think I will forget about your sneaking."

"Wouldn't dream of it, bud. Heck, I'll even give you a free pass to show up in my room sometime all unannounced-like."

Ivan's laughter was a low rumble in his chest before he said, "I will keep that in mind."

And as he let himself out, Alfred found himself hoping Ivan would make good on that promise.


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur was Alfred's brother. Maybe not by blood, but in all the other, much more important ways. He'd shown up one day, out of the blue, in middle school. He was exotic then, with his funny but nice accent and his rough and tumble attitude.

Alfred had thought Arthur was a spy, that he knew James Bond personally. Not that he ever mentioned it to Arthur. Blowing Arthur's cover would have been the last thing Alfred wanted to do, so instead he attached himself at the hip to him.

At lunch they traded food, cookies for pretzels, scones for biscuits. Arthur never told Alfred where he lived, but Alfred was always more than happy to share his home. That was when Arthur would start showing up at night with nothing but the clothes on his back, his lip split or an eye swollen shut.

Alfred's mom was gone by then, and his old man hardly spared Arthur a glance. It was up to Alfred to do his best, whip out his dinky first aid kit and put on his bravest Boy Scout voice and tell Arthur he would fix everything. But he was twelve, and the best he could do was prod at Arthur with gauze and hydrogen peroxide while he assured Arthur that it really didn't look all that bad.

Arthur never gave specifics when Alfred asked what had happened to him, but he did tend to do a lot of muttering and pouting and foot stomping. Once Alfred thought he heard Arthur mention something about his mom having a new boyfriend, but that was the closest he ever got to the truth.

Alfred wondered a lot about Arthur as they grew up together. Where he would end up in life, if he'd ever be happy, if his seemingly permanent, almost feral expressions would soften. He'd grown up, gone from bristly and boyish to rugged and ill-groomed.

His thick eyebrows were dotted with piercings, his ears just as decorated. His clothes were ripped and torn, leather and denim. Studded bracelets were strapped to his wrists and his boots were tipped with steel. When he smiled it was something wild, untamed, his teeth yellowed by nicotine, a slight gap between the top incisors. His forearms were decorated with cigarette burns and tattoos crawled up his neck.

But Alfred loved him. Alfred loved him because they were brothers, family, had told each other quiet things and had been sworn to eternal secrecy. And while Arthur might drink too much, or smell like stale smoke, he never pushed anything on Alfred. He snarled and sneered at strangers, but always had a kind look in his eyes when he spoke to Alfred.

His advice was second to none, and to Alfred, he was the man to go to with his problems. That was how they ended up meeting at school these days, even though Arthur wasn't strictly enrolled anymore. He came and went during lunch, checked up on Alfred and reminded him to keep up on his schoolwork, asked if Alfred had anything in particular on his mind.

He was a punk rock counselor, and Alfred wanted nothing more. There was no better person to tell his problems to, to turn to for help and advice, or simply for a shoulder to lean on and an ear that would listen. So he was the one Alfred turned to, the two of them sitting beneath the bleachers, Alfred nibbling on pizza as Arthur blew smoke rings.

"What's it like being with a guy?" Alfred asked, his words muffled by a mouthful of pepperoni and cheese.

"What's it like being with a girl?" Arthur returned, the edges of his lips curling.

"Uh, I dunno. It's kind of hard to explain, I think."

"And you think it's any easier for me to explain what it's like to be with a guy?"

Alfred frowned. "I figured since you know everything else you could explain it to me."

Arthur laughed, the noise raspy, like the bark of a stray dog. "You're a good boy, but sometimes you need to think before you speak."

"Tell me about it," Alfred said with a groan. "What's it like to be in love then, can you tell me that?"

Arthur's eyes took on a dreamy quality, like a man lost in memories. "You know how sometimes, whenever I get a new guy, I have a bad habit of not checking up on you enough?"

Alfred nodded vigorously. He could recall a half-dozen times off the top of his head where Arthur had mentioned a John, or a Scott, once even a Herbert. Names that would make him leave, make Arthur nothing but a name himself, something that sat in Alfred's head for months on end before the real thing would come back. Sometimes he already had a new name on his lips, or at least a few crude comments about the last one.

The look in Arthur's eyes faded for a moment as he leaned in, his expression slackening with his concern. "You know I don't mean to do that, right, lad? But that's what love does to you. It makes you forget about everyone else."

"Like how they say you only have eyes for them or something?"

"Precisely," Arthur said. "It's like there's too much─ too much affection in your heart, and it pushes everyone else out." He took a long drag from his cigarette, his words spliced with smoke on his exhale. "And it feels bloody good."

Alfred let Arthur bask in his thoughts for a moment, watched him be overtaken by the past again. Alfred had never loved so much that there wasn't room for anyone else, but he got the feeling that was the case for most couples he saw. He told himself that'd never happen, that he wouldn't be the guy who abandoned his friends to chase after a pretty girl, but he knew better than to think he was above it. No one else seemed to be.

"When did you figure out you liked boys?" Alfred said, piping up as Arthur's faraway smile started to fade.

Arthur chewed the inside of his cheek as his thick brows furrowed. "It was more that I realized I didn't like girls."

"Oh." Alfred nursed a bottle of coke, looking everywhere but at Arthur.

"Alfred," Arthur said gently. "Are you having some trouble with the ladies? Tell you what, I could fix you up with Anna. She's a right fit bird─"

"No," Alfred blurted. "It's not like that at all. Don't even worry about it, bro."

Arthur regarded Alfred with a certain suspicion, eyes narrowed and curious, searching Alfred's face. Alfred quickly set to work on his second piece of pizza, his tongue burning under the too-hot taste. Arthur sighed and shook his head, letting his cigarette drop to the ground and smothering it with the heel of his boot.

"If you say so, lad. But if you ever want anyone, let me know and I'll find you someone."

The bell rang, a hollow, dreadful buzz, and Alfred nervously straightened his jacket and gave Arthur a lopsided smile. "Thanks for talkin' to me, Arthur. I'll see you around, 'kay?"

Arthur ruffled his hair for the smallest second. "Keep yourself out of trouble and wear clean pants."

Alfred laughed. "Okay, mom. I'll be good."

"I know you will," Arthur said. "But if you need anything, be sure to call. Don't bother stopping by the flat, I've been staying with Steve lately."

"I'll keep that in mind. See ya 'round." Alfred gave a single wave as his hiked his backpack over his shoulder and headed back to class. He already knew his calls would go unanswered, his messages never returned. He'd be pushed out of Arthur's heart by this Steve character.

He had started to understand what Arthur had told him, about the crowding of the heart. Ivan had started to make himself comfortable in Alfred's heart after all, taken up the empty space that Arthur left when he went away for months with his names, the chunk that had been gone since Alfred's mom left. He'd slowly filtered into all the nooks and crannies, and Alfred found he didn't mind.


	6. Chapter 6

It was hard for Alfred to pinpoint exactly when he'd started to like-like Ivan. It was more of a gradual realization than anything. Alfred simply noticed as the days went on how much he thought about Ivan, how many times he snuck glances at him throughout school or saw things at the store that reminded him of Ivan.

Every day Alfred woke up, his first thoughts were of Ivan. If Ivan had slept well, or poorly, if he'd stayed up too late or had any interesting dreams. He wondered what Ivan would wear that day. Would he go with a blazer or a sweater? Regardless of the fact that everyone wore nearly identical uniforms, Ivan somehow managed to always wear his the best.

Alfred assaulted Ivan with questions on their walks to school. There seemed to be no end to how interesting he was, and Alfred endeavored to find out every little detail about him. Had he ever broken a bone? Did he have a weird phobia? What was his favorite number?

Ivan answered Alfred's questions with his usual cool composure. If he found that at all bothersome, he never mentioned it. Instead he indulged Alfred, like a parent explaining the most simple things to their child, always kind and calm.

During school Alfred's mind was still stuck on Ivan, tuning in only occasionally to take notes. When they passed in the hallways between classes, Ivan was never too busy to spare a few words with Alfred. That was one of Alfred's favorite things about him (though it was hard to narrow down the list).

Ivan was an unhurried man. There seemed to be a silent knowledge he carried with him everywhere, a sense that things would get done and there was no need to rush. Where Alfred was constantly moving at a bouncy lope, Ivan strode along with an easy gait that spoke of his calm demeanor.

It was in English, where they sat so almost-close that it drove Alfred crazy on a daily basis, that it was hardest not to think about Ivan. He was out of reach of being handed a note, whispered to, or kicked at under his table. (Not that Alfred would kick Ivan. He stopped kicking things he liked after middle school.) So instead Alfred he settled for lots and lots of staring and the occasional thrown pencil.

Ivan's desk had a funny way of being in the perfect spot for the afternoon sun. The rays always shone on him all special-like, as though he were an angel and he couldn't hide it very well. It didn't help that it made his hair look like it was touched by a halo, the beginnings of a nimbus.

Alfred always went red when he realized what he was thinking up in his head. Ivan was a person. A really cool person, no doubt, but not an angel. No matter how awesomely the sun shone on him and no matter how downright divine he looked, he was a person. Not that the constant reminder of that stopped Alfred from putting Ivan on a pedestal.

On the weekends they always hung out. Ivan was the studious one, diligently working on whatever projects were due on Monday, not-so-seriously admonishing Alfred for his lackluster interest in doing the same. And each time Alfred came to him on Sunday night, pleading for help. And while Ivan refused to do his homework for him, the answers to the questions had a way of managing to find themselves into their conversation.

But once, and only once, Alfred had found himself putting his head down for a moment, thinking how nice it would be to sleep. The library had been so quiet and warm, so wonderfully cozy. And the worksheet in front of him was daunting in its blankness. The regular scratch of Ivan turning a page next to him was what did it, what made him figure he'd be able to think if only he could rest his eyes for a second.

When he opened his eyes again the bright light that had been streaming through the windows had dimmed, turned a dusty color that reminded him of the Grand Canyon. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Alfred found that his worksheet was already penciled in, his handwriting neater than he remember it.

He looked to Ivan, who was infinitely more interested in his book than meeting Alfred's gaze. He was smiling though, a warmth in his eyes as they skimmed the pages. Alfred had smiled back and bumped his shoulder against Ivan's, whispering a quiet "Thank you," before he put his head down again.

It was the accumulation of all those thoughts and memories and observations that did Alfred in. They coagulated in his head as he lay down to sleep one night, one after another, fond things that soothed his mind and made his worries melt away.

He found that he stopped thinking of Ivan as a boy, as Ivan being the same gender as him. Alfred began to view him as another human being. Not a boy, not a girl, not anything in between. Alfred stopped letting gender dictate and restrain what he felt for Ivan.

He liked Ivan as a person. Liked how Ivan made time for him, never told him off for his silly antics. He liked that Ivan explained the deeper meanings of poetry and the lives of historical figures as though he'd known them personally. He liked that Ivan laughed as his jokes no matter how corny they got.

Most of all, he liked the idea of Ivan being close to him. Of holding his hand and squeezing it, or pressing a kiss to his cheeks. Where such thoughts before had made his stomach flutter uneasily, this time around they seemed only to bring him a certain happiness.

Ivan didn't scare Alfred. He didn't push or pull or do anything at all to upset him. His words never made Alfred uneasy, or like he was trying to manipulate Alfred on the sly. Alfred associated Ivan with comfort, with days spent lying around watching movies and talking about nothing in particular.

Ivan wouldn't mind that Alfred wasn't the best kisser. He was the kind of person to guide, to help, someone that would be able to show Alfred without words, without putting him on the spot or making him feel like the foolish boy he was. Ivan wouldn't push him too hard, force him out of his comfort zone.

He'd take things slow and easy and with that secret knowledge of his. Things would be nice, warm and comfortable and never scary. The kisses and touches would be sweet and chaste, nothing to shy away from or be fearful of. And Alfred liked that. He liked the easy joy the thought of Ivan touching him brought him.

That was how he ended up at Ivan's doorstep at one in the morning, one hand knocking away while the other held a frozen pizza, a peace offering for dropping by so late. Ivan answered the door looking like he was still asleep, his tank top ill-fitting and long, his boxer briefs barely peeking out from beneath his shirt.

Alfred found his mouth suddenly parched, his eyes inexplicably drawn to Ivan's thighs. Somehow it'd never occurred to them how ridiculously awesome they were. And kinda sexy. Yeah, definitely sexy. How could they not be when they were all nice and muscled and bare like that. Defined, really. Alfred's urge to touch them was immediate and fierce, but his hands were about as useful as his mouth at the moment.

"Alfred, I am thinking you had a good reason to wake me up, yes?" Ivan asked, his voice still thick with sleep as he ran a hand through mussed hair.

Wow, Alfred thought. Wow, wow, wow. This was not going according to plan. He was supposed to say something smooth now, something endearing or quirky or suave. Not ogle Ivan and stand around with a pizza in his hand that was slowly numbing his palm from the cold. Not standing on a doorstep in front of a practically half-naked Russian hottie.

"I brought you this pizza," Alfred finally said, his tongue thick and brain fried. "Because I like you."


	7. Chapter 7

Ivan's kitchen was nice, not at all like Alfred's. There were no plastic films from microwave dinners lying about. No discarded napkins or forgotten utensils. Definitely no overflow of empty beer cans sitting next to the sink, waiting to be taken out.

But there were also no magnets, no photos of friends or family stuck to the fridge. The hand towels were white, plain, unmarked by discoloration and burns. House plants were a no go, and there was definitely nothing resembling art on the wall. The appliances were cool and stainless, casting muted reflections.

Ivan was the only thing that drew Alfred's eye in the kitchen. He stood in front of the stove, all casual grace with one hand fiddling with a knob as he looked over the back of the pizza box. He hadn't said anything after Alfred's late night confession.

He'd simply taken the pizza from Alfred's hands and stood aside. He hadn't looked mad, or sad, or even happy. He hadn't looked like he felt anything other than tired. Alfred had wordlessly stepped inside, listened as Ivan closed the door behind him. Alfred thought he heard the sound of a lock turning, tumblers falling, but he didn't mention it.

Ivan led him to the kitchen and sat him down. That was how he ended up watching Ivan, after all. There were no newspapers lying around to browse, no cereal boxes with backs he could read. So he stared, and stared, and stared. And he was good at it too, had improved since he met Ivan. He knew exactly when Ivan would look back at him, knew exactly when to pretend his nails were the most interesting things in the world as Ivan turned toward him.

He kept his eyes glued to his cuticles even when Ivan took a seat across from him. Alfred knew he was the one who was supposed to start the conversation. He was the one who'd shown up at one in the morning, the one who'd announced his interest in Ivan. And now Ivan was waiting, patient and quiet as always.

There was an intensity though, in how he leaned forward and how his eyes seemed to bore into Alfred, tried to read him without an exchange of words. His foot brushed against Alfred's under the table, a friendly touch of their toes. Alfred had forgotten to put on shoes and socks in his haste to talk to Ivan.

"Do you have something you would like to tell me?" Ivan eventually asked, his feet coming to rest toe to toe with Alfred's.

"Uh, naw. I think I pretty much already told you." Was that a hangnail? Yeah. That was a hangnail. What a bummer.

"Only that one little thing, then? That you brought me a pizza because you like me?"

"Mmhmm." He really needed to clean the dirt out from under his nails.

"And do you like pizza?"

Alfred looked up at that, head cocking to the side as he met Ivan's gaze. "Of course I like pizza."

"And," Ivan continued, placing his hands over Alfred's, "do you like me the same way you like pizza?"

Ivan had good hands. They were clean, without a hint of dirt or bad cuticles. The nails were trim and uniform, fingers long and slender, like a pianist's. They didn't give Alfred much to go back to looking at. But they were soft, soft and warm and careful. They squeezed gently, coaxed with touch instead of voice.

And they made Alfred's blood thin, made it sparse and watery, like he didn't have enough to pump through his veins. He got that intoxicating rush, like there were fireflies in his head, blinking on and off, filling his thoughts with their lovely glow. He liked it much, much better than pizza.

"I like you in a different way," Alfred admitted, toes curling.

Ivan laughed, the sound smooth and kind. It wasn't mocking, but instead amused. The lightness of it brought a smile to Alfred's lips, a small, flighty thing that could flee at any second. A sigh trailed at the end of Ivan's laugh, a satisfied wisp of a noise.

"And I'm sorry," Alfred said, before he had enough sense to stop, "for being such a jerk to you when you asked me out. So I totally get it if you're not big on me anymore. 'Cause like, yeah. I was really uncool to you."

Ivan smiled at Alfred's words, but it was all wrong. There was a tightness to it, a too-pinched look at the edges. His lips were too thin, pressed together in a pale line. The light in his eyes dimmed, darkened as his walls went up. He pulled his hands away.

_"Straight to jail",_ Alfred thought grimly. "_Do not pass Go, do not collect $200."_

This was so like him. He'd start off on the right foot, get himself through the door and grab their attention. Then he'd blab, spout something about aliens or comic books, maybe a line about how good peanut butter and bacon was, and whoever he was with would just turn right off.

"Can I have a redo?" Alfred asked, shoulders hunching, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he cringed. His smile turned guilty, embarrassed.

Ivan looked past him, expression impassive for a moment. Most people were easy to read once you really tried, once you figured out their tics and habits and expressions. But Ivan was different. He didn't wear his heart on his sleeve, let his emotions into his breath. It was all very carefully guarded, hidden beneath a calm and collected exterior.

"Okay," Ivan eventually said, placing his hands over Alfred's once again. "I will let you try that again."

Alfred broke out into a grin. "Thanks, man. I won't screw it up this time."

He steadied himself with a breath, let his toes touch up against Ivan's. His fingers gave a nervous twitch and he squared his shoulders as he opened his mouth.

"I like you in a different way," Alfred repeated, this time more emboldened.

Ivan's smile returned, more natural this time, without the tenseness of before.

This time when he pulled his hands away, he took Alfred's with him. He brought them up close to his lips, warm breath skimming against Alfred's skin as he watched. His chest fumbled his heart, dropped it to the bottom of its stomach where it bounced and fluttered.

The shrill cry of the oven's timer shattered the mood. Alfred jerked away, the legs of his chair tipping back, his hands pulling away to windmill for a moment, trying to regain his balance. Ivan stood, fast and jerky. They stared at each other for a moment, Alfred's eyes startled and wide, Ivan's own bordering on something akin to disappointment.

"You should, uh, prolly get that," Alfred said as the oven continued to beep.

Ivan nodded once and turned away, grabbing an oven mitt from the counter. Alfred scooted his chair closer to the table, folding his hands in his lap. Ivan had almost kissed him. Kissed him! Well, not on the lips, but the hands counted too, right? They were still part of Alfred after all.

Alfred wondered if he was ready for kissing. He wasn't super sure. He'd only figured out he was definitely liking Ivan as more than his buddy an hour ago. This whole kissing thing was a big jump for him. It was nice in his head, the thought of kissing Ivan. It was simple and perfect and Alfred loved it.

In Alfred's head, the kiss was preceded by long, dreamy glances. Ivan would lean in, pause for a moment, the tips of their noses barely touching together. And Alfred would smile, or laugh, or make some kind of noise to signify his permission (he hadn't decided just yet). Ivan's lips would be soft and supple, and certainly warm. There would be a biting edge to the kiss, a hint of roughness, 'cause Alfred sort of dug that thing.

But real life couldn't live up to Alfred's expectations. The dreamy part they might be able to manage, but it'd go downhill from there. The second Ivan moved closer Alfred would worry. Would Ivan see that pimple that refused to go away, or notice that his bangs were kind of greasy and he smelled a bit sweaty? He would find Alfred's imperfections, and they would disgust him.

And what if Ivan didn't like him anymore? What if he'd gotten over Alfred once he was rejected, what if that was why he didn't like bringing it back up? He could be embarrassed for Alfred, that he'd developed these feelings too late and now there could be nothing. And sure he'd held Alfred's hands, touched their toes beneath the table, but he didn't say he returned Alfred's feelings.

"D'you still like me?" Alfred asked when Ivan placed a plate full of pizza before him.

"Do you need to ask?" Ivan countered.

Alfred nodded as he dabbed at his pizza with a napkin.

"Actions speak louder than words," Ivan said as he took his seat again.

That was not what Alfred wanted to hear. He had no desire for prolonging his anxiety, his worries. He didn't want to play word games and dance around the subject. He tried to be up front, and sure it took some wheedling on Ivan's behalf, but Alfred had spit it out.

What if Ivan wanted him to press the subject? Should he keep the questions coming, go along with his teasing and enigmatic answers? No matter how appealing, Alfred couldn't manage that. Ivan was the one with a penchant for words, able to string them together in the most interesting and romantic ways. He never offended or pried to deeply, he merely opened his mouth, and the things he spoke made Alfred want to spill everything to him.

Ivan had a silver tongue, while Alfred's was made of nothing but lead.

And then Alfred went and burned his stupid lead tongue on the first bite of pizza. He spent the rest of the meal pretending like he could taste his food, humming happily at the appropriate intervals. Ivan smiled kindly at him when he asked how it was, commented that the pizza was good and thanked Alfred for bringing it over. Aside from that, there was no conversation.

Afterwards Alfred insisted on doing the dishes. Ivan refused. They both found themselves vying for the sink, hips and shoulders bumping as Alfred's heart jumped back and forth from elated to nauseous. He settled for letting Ivan wash the dishes while he dried them off, but in the end Alfred was baffled by the cupboards organization, turning to Ivan again and again asking him to point out where they should go.

When the table was cleared and the dishes put away, Alfred found himself at a loss for what to do next. During the day he could suggest a walk, a stroll around the block or a stop at the ice cream parlor. They could amble around the mall or catch a movie─

"Hey," Alfred said, perking up. "Wanna watch a flick or something?"

"That is sweet of you to ask, but I think sleep would be best for us," Ivan replied, his words filtered through a yawn.

Alfred's cheeks flushed as glanced at the clock. It was nearing three in the morning. On a school night. He made an instantaneous beeline for the front door. "Right. Right, absolutely. I'll totally get out of your hair. It was good eating pizza with you and all, thanks for letting me in so late at night."

Ivan's palm slammed against the door as Alfred's fingers toggled the lock. It was sudden and loud, causing Alfred to jump. His eyes snapped up to see Ivan, his arm outstretched as his palm remained on the door. He carried the lazy confidence of a tom cat.

Alfred could feel the warmth of Ivan's breath against his face, see what a rich and impossible violet his eyes were, how his pupils were so large, so dark. There was a feral curve to his lips, something wild tinged with a playfulness. He was too close, and Alfred's automatic reaction was to pull away, his attention slipping as he hit the wall, belatedly realizing he was cornered by Ivan.

"You can stay if you'd like," Ivan said, tone inviting and honeyed.

So Alfred did.


	8. Chapter 8

Alfred didn't have any pajamas, so Ivan lent him his. Alfred put them on in the bathroom, his quiet excitement bubbling over into a silly little dance as he tugged a too-loose shirt over his head. This was awesomely romantic, like in the movies. Sharing clothes was that special thing. It was cute and sexy at the same time, the perfect balance of innocence and a certain deviancy. He wondered if this was how girls felt when they secretly wore sexy lingerie.

And Alfred also wondered if somehow, in some impossible way, wearing Ivan's clothes would make him somehow cooler. The clothes made the man, they said, and Alfred wanted to be made like Ivan. He wanted that unaffected air and sly, charming smiles. He wanted to absorb what it was to be Ivan, to know what he was doing and walk with purpose, to be cultured and handsome. And most importantly, likable.

But when Alfred looked in the mirror, he saw himself. He saw Alfred in clothes that were too big and hung on him in all the wrong ways. He still had that bit of pudge around his stomach that never left. He still had chicken legs. He still wasn't good enough.

With his day clothes bundled in his arms, he emerged from Ivan's bathroom. His room was the same as ever, an organized mess if ever there was one. There was an extra pillow and set of sheets on the floor next to the bed. Ivan sat on the mattress, elbows resting on his knees, eyes closed.

"Hey," Alfred whispered, and Ivan jerked awake.

"Ah, Alfred. You are looking very good." Ivan's voice was light and sincere. "I am thinking you should make a habit of wearing my clothes."

A nervous heat prickled along the nape of Alfred's neck. He reached his free hand up to scratch at it, nails biting into this skin. It only worsened. Ivan stood, taking two long, languid steps until he was in front of Alfred, pulling the clothes from his hand and tossing them into the hamper.

Alfred lowered himself to the floor and slipped between the sheets. His movements were gangly and awkward, like his body was foreign, new, needing to be tested out. He found himself staring at nothing, eyes refusing to blink. He fished his glasses from his face, folding them carefully before setting them next to the pillow. He laid his head down without a word, the world a blurry mass of colors and ill-defined shapes.

The floor was not comfortable. It was nice on the feet, sure, but the back was another story. There was no give, no support like with a mattress. It was hard and fuzzy and told Alfred that it was going to leave him sore in the morning. If the floor could be a person, it'd be that one jerk who always played too rough during football and tried to pass it off as friendly competition.

The covers were peeled away as Alfred continued to humanize the floor. He shut his eyes tight at the intrusion, but Ivan's hand rested on his shoulder, shook him with a gentility that seemed impossible for such a large guy.

"Alfred, sleep in the bed."

Alfred groaned and rolled onto his side.

"You are my guest," Ivan said. "It would be wrong of me to have you sleep in the floor."

"S'cool, don't worry about it," Alfred said.

"It is sounding like you think you have a choice."

"Land of the free, baby. Choice is in my blood."

Ivan chuckled throatily, the noise a song-like rumble. Before Alfred could say anything more he felt Ivan's arms tucking beneath him, one under the back of his knees, the other supporting his neck. With one deep breath and one fluid motion, Ivan had lifted Alfred from the floor.

He proceeded to unceremoniously drop Alfred on the bed, the springs creaking as his body bounced from the impact.

"What was that for?" Alfred yelped as his eyes shot open and he sat up.

"You are so stubborn, what else could I do?"

Alfred watched as Ivan's hazy figure went to the wall, flicking off a light switch, the vague details of the room turning to nothing but a blackness. He listened as Ivan lay on the floor, the rustle of the sheets as he settled in. All Alfred could think about was how hard and unyielding it'd been, how impossible to sleep on it it was.

"You shouldn't sleep there," Alfred murmured as he wiggled his way under the bed covers. "You're gonna get, like, zero minutes of sleep."

"Then where do you suggest I sleep, the ceiling?"

Alfred fidgeted, feet rubbing together and he squirmed. The bed was pretty big, and Alfred didn't mind squeezing over to make room for someone else. He could tuck himself up tight against the wall, pretend to be something so tiny he didn't exist. He'd gotten really good at that game when his mom and old man used to fight a lot. If he ceased to be, he couldn't hear their screaming.

"You can sleep in bed with me," Alfred said, swallowing a pitchiness that threatened to rise at the end.

Ivan didn't need telling twice, and Alfred decided he had overestimated the size of the bed. It fit them both, but only barely. Alfred lay on his back, one shoulder pressed against the cool wall while the other one nestled against Ivan's arm. Their hands stayed decidedly apart.

Alfred listened to Ivan breathe. Not on purpose, of course, but there wasn't much else to listen to. Ivan was really good at breathing. A master of it, even. He probably had all kinds of meditative breathing exercises. Maybe that was why he was always so chill. Alfred decided he would be the first in line if Ivan ever recorded some kind of self-help CD that was all about centering your breath or achieving zen.

Ivan had a good kind of voice for talking, too. Especially if he was speaking in Russian, reading to Alfred from one of his many books. Did Ivan read poetry and sweet stories to anyone else? And there it was, that niggling fear that Ivan didn't like him like he used to.

Had his feelings faded so quickly? In the week that he was gone, had he moved on, maybe even found someone else? Did he share his voice, his words, his sweet, insightful opinions with another man? Even now, lying in bed with Ivan at his side, Alfred worried.

Alfred's heart hitched as he ran through the possibilities. There was something more manageable, less hurtful about Ivan not liking him back if there was no one else. But to think his heart was set after another settled a cold, wrenching ache in Alfred's chest. He didn't want to be the third wheel in the romance, the one no one really liked, but kept around anyway.

And what if Alfred was being led on? It was so nice to be liked, to be wanted. It always inspired a sense of well-being in Alfred's heart when others had spoken to him of their feelings, how they wanted him as more. More than someone that was passed in the halls, seen between classes or on the field. To be desired was to be valued, and it was addictive.

Alfred had led others on. He didn't mean to, not really, but it happened. At night he would tell himself to stop, to stop bowing to his fears of being alone and ignored, to stop giving false hope to others. But in the morning he would find himself unable to help himself, allowing a casual brush of flesh or secretive smile to his admirer, carrying on until they wisened up and moved on, sparing Alfred nothing put hurtful glances and short words when he saw them.

"There's someone else, isn't there?" Alfred asked. He couldn't sleep. His body was tired but his mind kept moving, kept worrying. He needed to know.

"Someone else?"

"Yeah, like. Someone else you like. Or you're with. Or─ I dunno. Just someone else."

"Are you being serious?" Ivan asked.

"Yes," Alfred hissed quietly. "This is killing me."

"Why would you think there is someone else?"

"Don't you get all shady with me. It's a yes or no answer. And I mean, it's okay if there is someone, I can deal."

"I do not think you would 'deal' so well."

Alfred sniffled, brows furrowing. "Tell me anyway."

"Alfred, there is no one else. When would I see them? Always I am with you, and I like it that way."

"Oh," Alfred said, his anxiety ebbing. "'Kay, just wanted to make sure."

They spent a few minutes in silence before Ivan piped up again.

"Where did that come from?" he asked.

"Nowhere."

"Alfred," Ivan said, and he did that thing with his voice where it was too kind to ignore.

"I get freaked out, okay? I'm not really all that good with figuring things out on my own. I know you said actions speak louder than words, but I need words."

Alfred's stomach churned as he spoke. There was a growing lump stuck in the base of his throat, all frustration and catastrophic thoughts. This always happened to him. He read too far much into what was said─ or not said─ and it wouldn't leave him. He knew better than to let it get to him, but somehow it snuck right back into his mind when he had a quiet moment.

"I like you," Ivan said.

"Like-like?" Alfred questioned.

"Like-like."

"And there's no one else?"

"I like-like you, and there is no one else."

Alfred's eyes fixed themselves to an invisible ceiling. This was good. Very good. Things were kind of going his way. He liked Ivan, Ivan liked him. There was a lot of liking going around and no one to get between them. And when people liked each other they got together, right? Well, normal people did. Alfred was pretty sure he wasn't the most normal person.

"I don't think we'd make a good couple," Alfred said.

The bed creaked and sighed as Ivan stirred, propping himself up on one elbow. That lovely breath of his skimmed against Alfred's cheeks, warm and wonderful, his blood pooling at the surface of his skin, trying to be nearer to it.

"Why not?" Ivan asked. There was a steady flatness in his voice, like he was waiting to decide how best to react.

"I don't think I'd be very good at this relationship stuff. I mean, I do really like you, but like, I dunno. I get kind of crazy about it. I have those crappy emotional things going on that all the dating columns tell you to avoid."

Ivan's laughter had a relieved layer to it as he dropped onto his back again, his shoulder once again nudged Alfred's. "That's all?"

"It's pretty bad," Alfred said seriously.

"And you think I do not have problems?"

"I bet mine are worse."

"Tell me yours and I will tell you mine."

Alfred debated it for half a second before humming in agreement. "Fine," he said. "I'm insecure and needy as all get out." It sounded a lot worse in his head, but when he spoke the words they seemed like trivial things, small words with hardly any meaning.

"And I," Ivan said in turn, "have been told I am possessive and overbearing."

"Huh, not a good combo for us two, huh?"

"A nightmare if ever there was one."

Alfred lay still for a moment. He listened to Ivan's breathing and the beat of his own heart. He let his toes curl until they cracked, let his eyes lose their sightless focus until they fluttered shut. He thought, and thought, and thought. For once, it didn't hurt to think.

Eventually Alfred's hand stirred from beneath the sheets, fingers feathering out as the meandered into the tiny gap between them until they brushed against the side of Ivan's hand.

"Wanna be my boyfriend anyway?" Alfred asked.

"Only if you want to be mine too."

The two of them laced their fingers together and squeezed.

* * *

><p>While I more of less gave this a happy ending, I do think these two would end up being rather dysfunctional at times. Knowing of Ivan's jealousy, Alfred could lash out at him during rough patches by hanging out more with other people.<p>

And in turn, Ivan could always stop mentioning how lovely and amazing he thinks Alfred is. Maybe he'd grab a bit of a love handle or say Alfred's jeans looked like they were fitting too tightly. He'd definitely be able to attack Alfred's insecurity through little words like that.

But at the same time, I see these two sticking together forever. They know each other's weaknesses, the soft spots of their souls and their guilty pleasures. They'll be that one couple that everyone knows will last. They love each other so much they can fight, and don't have to worry about the other leaving.

Basically, they're the high school sweethearts that make it and grow old with one another.


End file.
